The chickens peck at my toes. I'm wearing flip-flops and my toes are painted silver, which apparently means I'm appetizing. I fill the trough with feed and the sisters rustle and squawk and flap their landlocked wings. A few black-and-white feathers go flying over the shed beams. I laugh and reach into the little holes the flock broods in. There are several speckled, a few blues. They are surprisingly warm. Soft, too. Like the patter of rain at twilight. My wire basket fills quickly and soon I have a baker's dozen. My belly rumbles and I lick my lips. Breakfast.
Kristen Chapman lives in the woods outside Philadelphia. Find her on Twitter @kristentyping.